


tether

by lady_mab



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 15:51:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20194798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_mab/pseuds/lady_mab
Summary: Hands on his shoulders, a hand on his forehead, something cool to the touch as a voice cuts through, "Ephrim—I've got you. It's okay, I've got you."He scrambles for purchase, lungs burning, voice raw, shivering all over. "I can't go back," he gasps. "I can't—I can't go back there, he knows—I killed him he knows—"The hands are gentle as they brush the tears from his eyes. "It was a nightmare," the voice says, lips against his temple, easing him back into the pillows. "I'm here. I'm here."





	tether

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Suedeuxnim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suedeuxnim/gifts).

> I feel like you're trying to speak  
But the words that you need  
They aren't forming inside of your mind  
But I hope you're okay  
'Cause I'm with you this time  
\-- [nøll - i hope ur ok](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-OiKcACDjp4)

There's a tether that draws his attention outward. A hook, clawed grip grasping between his ribs and tearing his mind to shreds until he has no choice but to obey the tug.

Ephrim stands in front of the tree. His neck aches as his head tilts back to stare up into the branches, dappled light dancing patterns across his upturned face. It's a bright day, but he shivers, clutching his cloak closer. 

His right arm hangs numb at his side. Useless, throbbing, hurts so bad that it makes him dizzy. It pulses in time with the thing pulling at his ribs, at his head, until he stands before the tree and it is like something inside of him is fighting—struggling—screaming for release. Colder than ice boiling in the pit of his stomach and flooding his lungs and clogging his senses until he is nothing but _pain_ and _rage_ and _destruction_and he is nothing more than an empty shell, waiting to be filled, waiting to be made anew. 

Ephrim reaches out, and places his hand to the seam of the tree, feels it part beneath his palm, feels it ready and willing to welcome him in.

He starts to fall into it, pitching forward.

But the thing inside of him yanks him back. _Mine_ , it seems to say, as it eats him up from the inside out. _Hunger_, it seems to promise, as it hollows him out and leaves him with nothing but a splitting headache.

The thing inside of him pulls again, and this time, as he falls backwards, the world seems to bend and tilt around him, until it is the ground swallowing him up instead of the tree, until the darkness closes over his throat and the stars—_the stars_ —explode before his eyes and _fuck,_ his arm hurts so bad, but at least he can feel _something_ —and he's staring up into the branches of the tree, stretching up up _up_ to a distance, a safety, he dreams of.

He can't feel the warmth of the sun on his face. The grass should be soft, but it is made of tiny blades that pierce through his cloak, his robes, his skin, reaching in and looking for something that isn't there.

Then, he can't see the sky between the leaves. Sound breath light muffled as loam clog his ears as vines crawl from his lips as flowers sprout over his eyes. Roots and moss find his bones and break him down until there is nothing left but Spring and Heat and Dark— 

And, then, it stops.

* * *

He floats in a haze.

Patches of light swim up through the darkness—fuzzy and red but lacking warmth. A piece of him exists. It must. Because there is static where he thinks his arm should be. A pain lancing his palm, and in that static that pain he can feel the outline of himself.

Everything else is numb. Is nothing.

There are voices.

Low, gentle, soft. A paragon of concern, of worry. Of kind reminders and stern reprimands. It speaks, not to the thing that must be Ephrim (because what else could it be, he's in pieces but he remembers) but to someone else.

That voice is deep, sad. Worried. That voice is home, and when it speaks, Ephrim can sense the spark of himself that makes up the whole. Not just the piece, the pain in his palm, the static up his arm to indicate a shape, but the whole.

"—need to at least get some rest, Throndir—" 

"I don’t need it."

"Bullshit."

A sigh, tired. "I need to be here with him."

"At least have some soup."

"There's others that need it more—"

The sound of a hand on a cheek, of a mother's determination. The response is too low to make out the words, and the little bit of togetherness that Ephrim managed to scrape together is starting to slip back into darkness.

But the last thing he feels is a hand in his, holding it with all the care in the world, holding _him_ in place.

A second tether, a reminder, and this time, it's easier.

* * *

The sound of the hammer striking the anvil chases itself through his blood. He moves in shuddering lurches, step after step, _whoosh clink, whoosh clink_, tugging him towards the stifling heat of the forge. 

_I can't_, he thinks, though he doesn't know why.

_This is wrong_, he knows, though he can't think why. 

One foot in front of the other shambling, a thing dying, pierced through by arrows, by vines, the fletching made of a bird that he doesn't recognize what a strange detail _whoosh clink_ leafs of a plant that writhe and plaster themselves to his chest _whoosh clink_ the blood is his, down his chest, the blood isn't his, coating his hands red slick dark black purple and he drops the sword _whoosh clink_ the anvil burns into his back, blisters skin, and when the hammer strikes, he blooms into a thousand new kinds of life and bleeds golden petals and _whoosh_— 

The scream tears itself out his throat, breaking the silence of the room, and he struggles against the weight of gravity—of colliding back together—of a massive dog in his lap looking up at him with worried eyes. 

Hands on his shoulders, a hand on his forehead, something cool to the touch as a voice cuts through, "Ephrim—I've got you. It's okay, I've got you." 

He scrambles for purchase, lungs burning, voice raw, shivering all over. "I can't go back," he gasps. "I can't—I can't go back there, he knows—I killed him he knows—"

The hands are gentle as they brush the tears from his eyes. "It was a nightmare," the voice says, lips against his temple, easing him back into the pillows. "I'm here. I'm here."

It helps, a little. He collapses, exhausted, drained, and passes out again.

* * *

This time, waking is easy.

He still feels hollow, but whole.

Careful of any sudden movements, Ephrim lets his head roll to the side.

Throndir sits slumped into the wooden chair that normally occupies a spot in the corner of their room, which once had grand aspirations of being paired with a desk where Ephrim could do work in his own space, but was now usually reduced to holding discarded pieces of clothes. His eyes are hooded, a spark of alertness in the depths of them, but distant.

"Hey," Ephrim croaks when recognition doesn't immediately dawn in his gaze. It takes a beat, then two, before Throndir seems to come back to himself and his attention focuses. "You look like shit." 

He looks about as frayed as Ephrim feels. His grip on Ephrim's hand, constant, tightens, and his expression shifts. Bit by bit, piece by piece, from the bland landscape to something tinged with fear. "Ephrim," he says, and his voice breaks on that single word.

Ephrim swallows down the urge to joke, to laugh this all off. His body is too heavy to roll out of bed, so he stays right where he is. Let's Throndir's hand holding his keep him steady. "How long?"

Throndir doesn't respond at first. Ephrim can't tell if it's because he can't or he won't.

"Throndir." This time, it's his turn to give a gentle squeeze to the hand. It's all he can manage, and even that leaves him feeling drained.

Throndir shifts, adjusting his weight, a titan moving after a millennia. He lifts his free hand and scrubs at his face. Ephrim's gaze locks on the band of gold around his ring finger, the metal catching in the faint light.

Something lurches in Ephrim's chest at the sight, that hollow feeling filled, his heart stumbling back into motion. He fidgets, longing to reach for Throndir despite the fact that they're already holding hands.

"I don't really know," Throndir finally admits, drawing Ephrim back to the moment. "Two days? Three? I don't know. I lost track. I don't sleep, I couldn't—" 

"Throndir—"

In bits and pieces, like a broken doll trying to work, he doubles over. He pulls his hand away from Ephrim's to cover his face. The fine tremors coursing through him turn to heaving shudders, his voice muffled into his palms. "I was so scared."

Ephrim pushes through the lingering pain to lift his hand, letting his fingers card back through Throndir's curls. His own ring is bright, even through the shadows. He manages the strength to push himself up just a bit, ignoring the twinge in his right arm with the motion.

His hand drops to Throndir's shoulder, snagging onto the folds of fabric before it can fall away altogether. He tugs, weakly, desperately, wanting to hold him but unable to reach.

It catches his attention, though.

Throndir kicks off his boots and crawls into the bed. He accepts the invitation eagerly, and pulls Ephrim into his embrace without hesitation.

Throndir's touch is enough to remind Ephrim of the edges of himself, of where he ends and where he begins, the way they blur comfortably when together. They lay like that, moving together, breathing in tandem, Throndir's hands painting the lines of Ephrim's shape—reassuring them both of his physicality, his wholeness. Ephrim's lips find Throndir's easily, and he kisses away the unspoken fears, drinks in the relief. Tastes the tears that haven't fallen, leaves behind whispered apologies.

They lay like that until their shaking stops, until Throndir can breathe without it catching and Ephrim has the strength to curl up against Throndir's side, head resting on his chest, left hand caught between them awkwardly, right hand useless at his side. It's comfortable in its familiarity, and the twinges of anxiety finally seep from his limbs.

"What happened?" Ephrim finally manages. He knows that he will have to answer the question himself, but that will come later. When he's had the time to put it all together.

"I don't…" Throndir starts, then lets out a sigh and presses his forehead to Ephrim's. "I was at the range when Lem came and got me. Emmanuel found you at the foot of the tree and he—" A shudder goes through him, and Ephrim pulls him in closer. Pulls himself in closer. Tangles the lines of them together. "You were covered in the Spring, barely breathing. He was trying to clear your airways, but… It was growing too fast. I took a risk, tugged you out of there. I didn't know if… You—"

Ephrim places a soft kiss to Throndir's lips, stopping the thought before it can be spoken. "Thank you."

"You could have died."

Ephrim doesn't think about the dream, doesn't think about what he knows it means. "I'll be back on my feet in no time."

"That's not the fucking _point_, Ephrim." It's a whisper, a blade, an injury wielded like a weapon. "If I had lost you—"

"I know," he says, then, again, softer, "I know." 

"Don't push yourself. We understand."

Ephrim doesn't know how to tell Throndir that he can't _not_ push on, that if he tries to stop, he's afraid the Heat and the Dark will take over, that stagnation is the root of his fears, that being still means something larger and more terrifying will find him. It was his life in the Tour, and it's never stopped being in his very bones.

Instead, he places his left palm to Throndir's cheek, marvels at the way his breath catches when his husband tilts his head _just so_ to kiss the ring. "I know," he repeats, because he does. "I know."

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a tweet thread back after episode 18 aired where I went "okay but what if instead of that happening ephrim fainted at the foot of the tree and spring crawled all over him" so thank you danny for the excuse to write this because damn, that blooming brand, huh? 
> 
> Want me to write you something that will emotionally destroy you? [find out how here!](https://lady-mab.dreamwidth.org/342348.html)


End file.
